


Silent Knight, Loud Hope

by raewise



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raewise/pseuds/raewise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kingdom of Albion has been taken over by a witch, but sometimes when all hope seems lost, it shows up in the most unlikely heroes…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Knight, Loud Hope

The knight was silent, but beautiful in the way her dark hair fell down around her face, looking harsh and jagged. She was wild, with a maniacal ferocity that was only subdued by her even, almond-shaped grey eyes. Which were pointed directly at him, like liquid fire that dug under his skin. Like fire in the form of a sharp needle. Or the sun, maybe. How hot was the sun? Pretty damn hot, he thought. He’d guesstimate on it if her pupils weren’t so focused on him, her jaw set and plump bottom lip sucked into her mouth—perhaps in a way of calming her nerves?—and he didn’t have duties to fulfill.

“Er, yes. Hello there. Uh, Dame Chell, was it? Rather foreign name, if I do say so myself. Where is that from? Gaul? I suppose that would be _Chelle_ then, wouldn’t it? Or _Mi_ chelle. Completely different. Well, maybe not completely, but one letter apart is enough, I think. Different sounds, too. Chelle is more fluid. Even more foreign. —Columbia! You’re from Columbia! Chell. Sounds quite Columbian. The hard ch sound. That’s what gave it away. Hm. Though I suppose ‘Wheatley’ sounds quite hard, too… Not very formal, either, might I say. Wheatley… Pretty goofy. ‘Prince Wheatley’ lacks propriety. No matter of the numbers at the end of my name, ‘Prince Wheatley the Third’ doesn’t sounds much better, and I don’t know what good ol’ dad was thinking when he—” He jerked to a quick stop when the knight finally moved, standing up from her crouch. She’d remained in her kneel the entire spiel, bless her.

He grinned at her, standing up from his throne—or what could barely pass as a throne. It was just a heavy, wobbly wood chair propped up on a crate. He nearly fell flat on his face when he fell from the great height. Force of habit. He was used to steps leading down, but that had been taken away, hadn’t it? That’s why the kingdom (what was left of it) had gathered the greatest knight they could muster up and stuffed her into the room with the to-be king of Albion. If everything went according to plan, of course.

He moved to stand in front of her. She was quite small compared to him, but she wasn’t particularly short. He was just incredibly tall. She was just below average, at least. He was almost a giant, or so he had been told by the young servants who brought him rations, those who hadn’t learnt better yet. He didn’t really mind, though. They were just primitive commoners, after all. Yet, so was this knight, who was supposed to save them all and get them out of the hell hole they’d retreated to. Maybe being a commoner wasn’t a good enough excuse for incompetence…

“Well, Dame Chell, you’ll be pleased to hear you’re the highest regarded knight left in the kingdom of Albion, so that’s good. Well, most of the other knights are dead, or, or working for _her_ so not much is to say for that… Not to say you aren’t spectacular! Out of two hundred people, you are the one everyone is risking for the good of their own lives. They’d rather see you dead than live in this underground facility here, so that’s—er…” He trailed off, blinking down at her. She was still watching him with that eerie silence, her stormy, wise eyes simply watching as his hands gestured madly and his blue irises flickered nervously across the small “throne room.” He threaded his fingers together and shuffled his big feet. “Do you talk?”

The knight shook her head, dark hair brushing against her hollowed cheeks. A couple months underground eating only cold gruel and raw potatoes would definitely thin a person out quite a bit. She didn’t look malnutritioned or anything, she was still valiantly strong, but she looked on the brink of unhealthiness. A string of sympathy went out to her, even though he was in the same situation.

“Oh, mute then. I knew a mute once. Court jester back in Capital. Toeless Nigel. He was a blast, lemme tell you. He’d stumble along, hurt himself real bad. Bloody hilarious, since he couldn’t formally complain about his conditions. Even cry out, really. Just stumbled along. Bells on his hat, a tambourine once in a while. Best jester we’ve ever had, honestly. Poor git’s probably dead by now.”

She just continued to watch him, her armour glittering under the candlelight, her eyes burning hot. Prickly needles, as he thought earlier. Creepy, nearly. Toeless Nigel had never been creepy, only a tad clumsy. He wasn’t used to feeling like he was put under such scrutiny. Not by a commoner, at least. His father had been a mean old wanker with as many IQ points as Nigel had toes. No common sense at all.

The thing was, Wheatley didn’t like feeling judged by anybody. This knight, who was supposed to be their kingdom’s only hope, made him feel uncomfortable. Maybe a bit valueless. Jealous, if he was willing to admit it, which he certainly was not! How come everyone put their hope—something Wheatley found quite important, since hope was what built nations, what created royal bloodlines, which _put him into existence_ —behind this creepy, silent woman who didn’t seem to _do anything_ other than stare at him. Creepily.

“Um, I’m sure you know why you’re here, but just in case no one informed you why you were thrown in here with me, Your Majesty the Prince of Albion—not to brag or anything—it’s because I have a bit of a quest for you. For us, maybe. If I’m not doing anything. Lots of important business to do. Babies to kiss, damsels to de-stress, etcetera. This quest is of the upmost importance, so clear your calendar! These are high stakes here, Dame. As you know, since you’re trapped here in the shelter with the lot of us, Glados, that hideous old hag, has taken control of the kingdom. Slaughtered the royal family—other than me, since I’m the prince and all and still here and breathing and well—and is casting her putrid magic over the kingdom. Don’t witches have anything better to do? I mean, there’s probably some place much more worth her time than here. Unless you enjoy potatoes and cabbage, since that’s all there seems to be around these parts—and, erm, are you sure Chell isn’t short for anything?”

She nodded quietly. Looked like she wanted to say something, but just ducked her head down and crossed her right arm over to her left side of the chest, hovering above her heart which was buried beneath layers of hard rusting metal and flesh and her ribcage. She knelt again, keeping her eyes on the ground, which was a big relief for Wheatley, since his skin was beginning to crawl under her sharp gaze.

The knight had accepted the quest, and Albion’s only remaining monarch couldn’t have been more pleased with the way this whole thing was looking. Rather bright future for the kingdom, what with the witch certainly facing at least a bit of pressure against her. Perhaps this all would turn out the way he wanted it to.

—

Wheatley didn’t want to be a burden to the knight. He was a decent person, didn’t want to bother anybody if it didn’t need to occur. Didn’t want to impose or anything, but honestly the whole mission was sort of urgent and they’d need to kill the witch quick before she completely drained the entire kingdom. The woman could hurry it up and meet him already and get this party—metaphorical party, of course, since facing near-death wasn’t exactly what he’d like to call fun—started.

His entire plan was hanging on a loose thread. It all depended on one other person, a smelly _commoner_ of all people. He still was unsure if she was even any good in a fight, or completing a mission. She could be some dull girl who happened to own an old suit of armour and a great sword. Woman had those lying around all the time, didn’t they? Most desirable item for all ladies in this day and age, next to a corset, or perhaps a pint of ale.

Shaking his head harshly like he was tossing a marble around up there, Wheatley huffed as he sat down. He wasn’t the most patient man. He was jittery just thinking about his plan, the mission, the _quest_. It was sodding brilliant! Foolproof! Twiddling his thumbs and looking up at the oily stone ceiling, the amber glow of candlelight dancing across his retinas, he sighed.

The wood door creaked open and he nearly fell off his throne, going slightly bug-eyed. Dame Chell stood before him, armour the same as the previous evening (morning? It was beginning to get hard to tell the time of day underground like this) and the same fierce glint to her steely eyes. She looked utterly prepared, everything Wheatley was not.

“You came! Oh goodness, I wasn’t sure if you would. Not to be of offense or anything, but you take awhile. Is that a commoner thing? My servants were always speedy as could be. fast as butterflies, them. You, though, lord! Slow as a tortoise. Like in the story. Though… he did win that race, didn’t he? So I suppose being slow and steady does win the race, and if that’s any sign, then we will definitely kill she she-hag!” he chirped, feeling positively giddy. He wondered briefly if witches bled red, or if they had black, demonic blood.

“So we’re off then. Out into the unknown. Well, maybe unknown to you, since I know my way around the entire nation. I’m going to be in charge of it very, very soon, in fact. ‘King Wheatley.’ Has a ring to it, yeah?”

She didn’t say anything, just gave him a short, barely noticeable nod, and turned on her heel to leave. He scurried after her, the satchel on his shoulder hitched as high as it could go, his messy hair plastering to the back of his neck in his nervous cold sweat.

A couple months ago he’d just been sitting around doing nothing, then all of a sudden his parents were dead and a crazy, steel cold witch had her staticy fingers in his gob, threatening to kill him. It was only with his quick wit and superior problem-solving skills that he was capable of distracting her long enough to make his great escape. Of which he meant he threw a bowl of fine china at her and dived out his window, nearly breaking his bleeding arm (er, bleeding as in the cuss, not the verb, just to clear up any misconceptions). It hadn’t been long until the royal guard found him in the rose garden, stumbling along and it so happened that his arm was literally bleeding. A lot of him was bleeding, actually. They’d escorted him to where they escorted two hundred other people, and it was in the underground ‘lair’ (as it had been introduced to him as) that he and his people waited for months until the opportunity arose to actually _do_ something. Or, rather, when Wheatley finally got up off his lazy rear and decided he missed having his own palace.

Now he was going to kill that dreadful witch, send her back to the black pit of misery in which she came, and live his old, carefree life and finally be rightful king to Albion. Everything would work out quite nicely for him if all went according to plan. This plan being that he and Dame Chell would charge the palace and heroically kill Glados, and live happily ever after. Or he would. He didn’t really give a damn what happened to her after this was all over. Wasn’t part of the plan, really.

He’d feel bad for it, for thinking of Chell as only a tool for his own gain, but really it wasn’t how he was raised. From the day he learnt how to walk, it was driven harshly into his mind that _he_ was the top priority, not any _commoner_. If the situation came where it was between a commoner’s life and his own, he was the one who _had to survive_. He was important, the one destined for greatness. Kingship. Rulerhood. So on, so forth. Prince Wheatley the Third was made to survive, to rule, to conquer. He was the only thing that mattered in his own eye, and if another person died for his benefit, then so be it.

He was once again tugged from his thoughts when Dame Chell stopped suddenly in the long, narrow corridor that reeked of human waste and mold, and looked back at him, the corner of her lip raised slightly in a near-smirk. Not smarmy or any reason to feel angry. It made her look… nice. Noble and brave. Ready for a fight, ready to serve.

As she jutted her chin up to the cracked ceiling, her eyes following momentarily, a silent question, asking, _Are you certain you are prepared? If you are, I will fight to protect you_ , he felt himself reconsidering the factor of her creepiness. Eerie, at best now.

Perhaps Wheatley could grow used to this Dame Chell.

—

The door, a rickety old hatch covered in moss and creepers, was guarded by two royal guards, who both bowed instinctively at the prince, who wasn’t looking too much like royalty at the moment. He was in commoners clothes, a necessary precaution at the advice of one of the captains. If he was seen in such fine garb as what he typically wore it certainly would stick out. His hair was a mess, but that was pretty normal. His crown, a short gold bobble that used to be his father’s before he married his mother and was dubbed king, was left behind. Best not to lose such a precious, century-old heirloom.

They opened the hatch, which protested with loud, awful screams, and let it collapse in a dust cloud of pollen and dirt, making Dame Chell sneeze, which was an odd thing to witness, since she had no voice. The lair was in the middle of bloody nowhere, a green forest full of awful creatures—giants, ogres, lycans, shifters, pixies, etcetera. It was sunny outside, and Wheatley let his face lift slightly to bath in the first sunlight he’d had for months. It was warm, like a hug, cradling his visage and spilling down over his body. It was very welcome.

Chell crawled out after him, her sword on her hip, shield on her back, bow strung around her shoulder, and a tiny pouch of who-knows-what wrapped snuggly around her thigh. She was a warrior, definitely. Wheatley tried to imagine her in a lovely evening gown, something like his mother would wear, or perhaps those trendy ladies from Gaul who his mother had always been so keen on setting him up with. It didn’t work, she was simply too rugged, too dangerous-looking. Her hair was a mess, and he just couldn’t manage to think it into lovely ringlets or a bun nestled beneath a tiara or circlet or something. Her armour couldn’t even be fitted into anything more feminine. It was men’s armour, the only good, practical kind, really, because the stuff made for woman was not only ridiculous, but dangerous. Not enough covered. And breast cups? That was just a mess waiting to happen there.

Dame Chell couldn’t be fabricated into Lady Chell, or Duchess Chell, or Princess Chell, but Wheatley was okay with that. Thinking of a princess saving him seemed a tad backward, since it would be like someone of his equal power doing a job he could very easily do himself in that case. A knight was perfectly suited for the job.

“So, off we are, then? This is quite nerve-wracking; I wasn’t expecting this. How many quests have you been on, that you can just waltz out here like it’s nothing?” The hatch behind them slammed shut, hidden once more by the grass and moss that disguised it. Dame Chell walked on ahead, her sword clanging against her hamstring. She lifted a hand and produced a single finger.

_One quest._

“Wh-What? Are you, you sure you’re completely qualified for this? We could turn back now and just, just wait a while for this whole thing to blow over. You know what? I’m not even sure I’m ready to be king yet! I’m still in mourning of dear ol’ mum and dad. I haven’t even worn black yet. What sort of son am I? A bloody awful one, is what. Oh my, we simply must go back. Yup! Just… turn back now while there’s still time. No use putting a defenceless, mourning prince on the throne while his most highly-thought of knight has only done something similar once before. The chances he’ll—I’ll—end up dead are faaar greater than if—”

She suddenly spun around on her heel and shot him a look so venomous her swallowed back all his words, a feeling of pure terror seizing him, paralyzing him under her stormy gaze. Wheatley was not used to being interrupted. Being so important growing up he was treated like what he was, a proper royal. After having his right of way so often, he grew into the habit of babbling, speaking his mind. Though he was an apologetic sort, skittish a lot of the time, he often thought that it was okay to say whatever if he followed them with words like, _Right, sorry_ , or, _No offense_. Sometimes he just didn’t understand boundaries. For a prince such as himself, there were none.

She blew a strand of dark hair out of her face, and went on with walking, her shoulders hunched now and hands pulled tight into fists. From behind, it was a spectacular sight, more emotion in just her body movement than Wheatley had ever seen. She wasn’t the most expression sort, and she hadn’t a voice to give her feelings with. All she had was her tornado eyes and that fit, knightly body.

 _Wow_ , was Wheatley’s only thought. _Wow._

**Author's Note:**

> Albion-Great Britain  
> Gaul-France  
> Columbia-America
> 
> These names don’t mean the story’s setting is in that distinct time period, I just wanted to call them something more fantasy-like than ‘America’ or ‘Britain.’


End file.
